


Team Effort

by MyMisguidedFairytale



Series: light reading [2]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Adventure, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, First Meetings, Geological Expedition, Greed Island, Hunter association - Freeform, M/M, One Shot, Partnership, Pre-Canon, Tension, World Travel, pariging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2020-01-25 18:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18580483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyMisguidedFairytale/pseuds/MyMisguidedFairytale
Summary: A young Ging meets up-and-coming Association member Pariston Hill in the early stages of the development of Greed Island. / Pariston x Ging





	Team Effort

**Author's Note:**

> _Team Effort_ was originally written and published on July 10, 2015 on [tumblr](https://cheadle-yorkshire.tumblr.com/post/123680403092/fanfiction-hunter-x-hunter-team-effort).
> 
> Everything below is preserved as it was originally posted:
> 
> **Title** : Team Effort  
>  **Word Count** : 4859 words  
>  **Pairing** : Pariston x Ging  
>  **Summary** : A young Ging meets up-and-coming Association member Pariston Hill in the early stages of the development of Greed Island.  
>  **A/N** : Takes place ~12 years pre-canon, so Ging would be ~19. Written for HxHWeek2015, and the prompt ‘Greed Island.’ I hope you enjoy!

**_Team Effort_ **

He’s been sitting in the lobby for almost an hour, flipping through month-old magazines from a stack on the side table and watching the people that come and go through the double doors that lead to the private offices. They’re aides, mostly, ferrying papers and carts with objects for filing—the Hunter Association gets donations from all over the place, he knows, and it’s a job typically relegated to those lowest on the totem pole. One, a young man in a neatly pressed suit, is in charge of taking the calls when they come in, and running the notes back to their intended recipient. They’re keeping him busy; the system is archaic. Ging thinks about how he could improve it, if he had the inclination.

Instead, he yawns into one clenched fist and slouches deeper so his hat slips a little further down his face, blocking the light from the windows. He’d watched, sourly, as the same aide had lifted the blinds with a cheery smile a half-hour prior, without a word to Ging if such an act would be appreciated or even wanted.

The magazines read—someone else had even gotten to the crosswords before him, painstakingly filled each of them out in red ink—Ging pulls himself to his feet with a sigh, and pads over to the aide’s desk.

“Do you know if Mr. Broker’s meeting will be running much longer? I’ve already been waiting an hour, and I’m on a tight schedule.”

The aide’s laugh is like falling water. “Is that what they told you at the front desk? He’s not even in today. Home sick with a cold, or so I’ve heard.”

“I see,” Ging says. “How unfortunate.”

“How so?” It’s phrased innocently enough, but Ging recognizes when someone’s fishing.

He continues, “I ask because I’m Broker’s assistant. If there’s something you need from him, perhaps I can get it for you.”

“He was supposed to accompany me on a trip.” Ging doesn’t feel like giving out any more information, but the aide’s giving him an expectant look and Ging finds himself babbling without realizing it. “…We’re supposed to be leaving in a few hours. It’s only for the weekend—he was going to assist me with a brief geographical survey of an island I recently purchased—”

The aide interrupts. “You bought an island?

"Well, I have like a one-tenth share, if we’re being specific.”

“You bought an island,” the aide repeats, and Ging nods emphatically.

“The others insisted I bring _someone_ along with me, since the currents are so dangerous. Broker has experience with boats, so I asked them. End of story.” He sighs again, glancing across the neat expanse of the aide’s desk. The lights on the phone are blinking; he’s avoiding whatever calls have come in just to listen to Ging prattle.

“You know, since you work for Broker, you’re kinda like the next best thing, right?”

“What?” The aide’s expression freezes, his eyes widening. It’s almost cute.

“Got any plans for the weekend? I’ll even pay you for your time. It’ll be dangerous, but you’re a Hunter, right? Nothing you can’t handle.”

“That’s right,” he says, after a pause. He doesn’t have plans. Work had been his plans. “I know who you are. Ging Freecs, archaeological Hunter.”

“And you are?” There’s a bag at Ging’s side; in it is the non-disclosure contract he’d brought for Broker to sign, stating that he wouldn’t release any information pertaining to Greed Island. He’ll need this man to sign it instead.

“Pariston Hill,” he says, straightening his shoulders. The lines of his suit are sharply tailored to those shoulders, and although the colors are simple—plain black jacket, white shirt, and green tie, the fabrics are nicer than anyone answering phones should be able to afford.

When no title follows it, Ging raises an eyebrow. “Bureaucratic Hunter?”

He is rewarded with another laugh, but this one sounds much more genuine, in a darker way.

“So,” Ging continues, “what do you say?”

“How can I say no?”

“You can’t.” Ging returns his gaze to the cup of pens by Pariston’s elbow. Every single one is red.

* * *

He’d told Pariston to pack light and meet him at Swaldani City’s airport in three hours. An airship would take them to a Yorubian island as close as they could physically get to Greed Island—air currents made flying there doubly difficult, not that there would have been anywhere to land an airship, and a helicopter would have been too far to fly on a single tank of gas.

“You could have mentioned,” Pariston says, squashed between Ging Freecs and an overweight, snoring centenarian, “that this was a commercial flight.”

“Financing for the project doesn’t cover travel costs and related personal expenses,” Ging says, cheerfully, like the rain pattering against the windows and the wind tossing the airship between swollen, hulking clouds was nothing. “Is this your first flight?”

“No,” Pariston says, “but I’m not convinced it won’t be my last.”

Ging’s laugh is easygoing and almost enough to make Pariston forget about the real danger associated with their newfound mission. “You should make yourself comfortable. You office types are all the same—you never know how to relax.”

“That is easy for you to say.” Pariston tries to settle deeper into his chair, but it only causes him to lean closer towards Ging. “You _like_ this sort of thing.”

“You think you’re an expert on what I _like_?” The airship takes a sudden drop, and Pariston reaches for the armrest out of instinct. Ging barely reacts to it.

“Well,” Pariston says, releasing his grip on Ging’s armrest and trying to copy his posture—legs spread out in front of him, as far as the cramped seats allow, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders slouched. “You were making generalizations about me, so I thought you wouldn’t mind if I returned the favor.”

Ging laughs, and his shoulder bumps against Pariston’s. “I don’t mind at all.” He leans back, and his hat tips further down the front of his face. “I’m going to get some sleep. You should, too—this may not seem like much, but it’s still better than we’ll get out in the field.”

“Wonderful.” The airship rattles again; beside him, Ging’s breathing evens out, his chin dropped to his chest. Pariston glances around the ship—at the surprisingly quiet family with two young children seated a few rows up, the businessmen in identical black suits in the row adjacent to theirs, and the attendants wheeling carts of drinks down the aisle. No one is paying them the slightest bit of attention. He wonders if, the next day, any of them would even be able to recall his face, or the face of his companion. Ging had given the older child a piece of candy, he remembers, and complimented the attendant’s complex hairstyle when they boarded. Maybe they would remember. Then, he abandons his study of both the airship’s occupants and the man seated beside him, and closes his eyes.

* * *

The boat was something that could be piloted by one, and as Ging took the helm—after checking the fuel, engines, and electronic heading—Pariston busies himself with taking a careful inventory of their various belongings. Ging’s bags, hardshell cases packed full with various electronic devices, have been a source of great curiosity to him during the early stages of their travel. Ging had insisted on transporting them himself, leaving Pariston mostly empty-handed—and he feels much like he does in the Association headquarters, where his primary purpose is as aide and courier, where the only reason someone of his stature and talents was there at all was due to the confidential nature of the information exchanged, and not for any skill inherent in the position.

And standing behind Ging, while the other man spoke to the marina managers, or to the airport personnel like they were old friends, Pariston feels largely invisible. He is not introduced, nor does Ging ask anything of him, but then the conversations would conclude and Ging would turn and offer him an easygoing smile, like he hasn’t forgotten him at all. It is reassuring, but more than a little grating the more it happens. Pariston has to wonder if it had been one of his friends there, if Ging would have treated them any differently, and concludes that he would not have.

The water is rough, and the sky looks ominously dark off in the distance. Ging, cheerfully, tells him the storm hovers over their destination—the place Ging has renamed _Greed Island_. Pariston asks him why he chose that name.

Ging shrugs and busies himself with steering, pausing a moment while he navigates a rough patch of waves. “It’s a combination of all our initials.”

“Ah.” He sounds out the name again, slowly. “ _Greed Island_. G for Ging, then? I see you’re still first.”

“It’s not like that,” he says. “We’re all working together. It’s a group effort.”

“Of course.” He says it too easily, conceding without the slightest bit of sincerity. “You speak of them so often, I feel like I know them just by knowing you.”

“I guess I’m just an open book.”

“Of course.” It’s said the same way, and a corner of Ging’s mouth ticks upwards. Another wave pitches the boat; Ging rides it out with ease, but Pariston falls against the side of the cabin, grasping onto the railing for support. The next wave, he fares much better.

There’s a true smile on Ging’s face now. “I hope you don’t get seasick.”

“I’m no stranger to boats,” he says, his voice colored by irritation.

“I never said you were.” Ging turns the wheel, changing direction. “But it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. There’s really only one beach we can land at, and even that won’t be easy.”

“You couldn’t have bought a _normal_ island—”

“I hope you don’t mind heights, either,” Ging continues. “Since we’ll have to go to the top of the highest mountain to do our survey.”

“There are very few things I _mind_ ,” Pariston says. “Heights are not among them.”

A pause. Pariston studies Ging, studies how he seems to be able to watch both Pariston and the water beyond him with the same level of appraisal and focus. He turns the wheel again, and while Pariston doesn’t falter, he does need to adjust his footing.

By the time the island comes into focus, the conditions have grown to the point that every wave is like a mountain of its own, and each one kicks up a spray of water onto the deck of the boat. Behind the glass window of the cabin, Pariston and Ging are safe from it, but the visibility is poor and the daylight dims with every passing minute. It is only partly due to the hour, the rest to the cloud cover—the storm that caught the plane seems to have followed them here, but Ging assures Pariston that the weather on the interior of the island is lovely.

“You’ve been here before?” It is something he should have thought to ask earlier.

“Of course,” Ging says. “Before I bought the island. I needed to be sure it was what I wanted.”

“But no one lives here. Who did you buy it from?”

“You haven’t figured it out yet? I thought you were an expert on the proceedings of the Hunter Association.” He gives Pariston another easygoing smile, somehow still unconcerned with the unsteady currents battering their boat as it inches closer to the coastline.

“They sold it to you?” The last piece of the puzzle clicks into place; Pariston’s shock is exceeded only by how impressed he is at Ging’s ingenuity. The other man would probably not think of it as such, but for Pariston, it puts more than a few ideas in his head. “Netero did?”

“Not exactly. But the Association _was_ involved. The island’s biodiversity is remarkable—because of its isolation, and the currents surrounding it, none of the creatures can leave, and none from the mainland can make it here. A few Beast Hunters have made a study of it, and we have one on our team who will help us with their preservation. We plan to market the game to Hunters, so it motivates the Association to work with us. But I’m not in it just for that.”

Pariston’s curiosity, which has been simmering throughout their entire journey, spikes now at Ging’s words. “Oh? And what else would there be?”

“You’ll see,” Ging says. “It’s better to see it for yourself than to hear about it from me, right?”

The water is deep enough off the coast that Ging is not worried about grounding the boat before they reach the beach, but he slows the engine, focusing on the narrow, sandy inlet surrounded by moss-covered boulders.

“We’ll have to pull the boat onto the beach,” he shouts to Pariston, over the mechanical whine of the engine at the sudden change. “I can’t leave the wheel. Do you think you can…?”

Pariston frowns, sparing a single glance for the navy fabric covering his arms and legs like a second skin. He regards Ging sourly. “You want me to jump off the boat and help guide it ashore?”

Ging flashes a smile. “Exactly!”

“You ask too much of me,” he says. “And you shouldn’t trust me with something so tricky. What if I fail?”

“If you do, and something should happen to the boat, we’ll be stuck here until someone realizes we’re missing. Could take awhile, as phones don’t work out here and I don’t have a good way of sending a message to Ickshonpay.”

The name isn’t unfamiliar to him—Pariston can say with absolute certainty that he is familiar with every Hunter worth knowing, even if they don’t know _him_ yet, and the fact that the reclusive hacker is not only friends with Ging but attached to this project doesn’t surprise him in the slightest.

“That would be terrible,” Pariston says. “I have to be back to work on Monday, and I doubt they’ll consider this an acceptable excuse.”

“If you’re ready!” Ging calls, and drops the engine to a whisper. Pariston exits the cabin, letting the door slam behind him. As the boat glides towards the beach, he gives a final thought of regret for his clothes before jumping overboard.

The water reaches just past his knees, but his shoes are inundated with water and sand almost immediately. It’s cold, but not enough to daze him, and he sloshes a few steps forward alongside the boat before grasping the edge of the railing and using a _Nen_ -assisted tug to help pull the boat up and onto the sand.

A moment later, Ging appears, with two coils of rope slung over his shoulders and their bags in his hands. He lifts Pariston's—an unremarkable rectangular black duffle—and tosses it at him without any further notice. He catches it easily, and turns and begins walking away from the water in case Ging thinks to throw any of their more delicate belongings in his direction.

Ging meets him underneath the wide fronds of a tree half-up the beach—not a palm, but something reminscient of one—and begins stacking their bags. There are three more, in addition to the one Pariston had brought himself—one containing camping and survival equipment, one housing whatever electronics they’d need to complete the geological survey, and a small one with Ging’s personal effects. He regards Pariston for a moment—in the attempt of kicking wet sand from his shoes, and frowning at them like they’d done him a great disservice—before kneeling down to search through the smallest bag.

He comes away triumphantly with a piece of paper and holds it out towards Pariston, noticing how he has stopped to watch him in turn, a strangely unreadable expression on his face. Ging climbs to his feet and holds out the paper again, waiting for Pariston to take it.

“It’s a map,” he says, pointing to the crudely drawn outline, shaded where the altitude or geography changes. “Here’s where we landed, and _here’s_ where the mountain is.”

Pariston leans closer, squinting. “It doesn’t look so bad.”

“It’s not!” he agrees, pointing to a few more sections. “It’s more of a plateau than a mountain, really, so once we get up there it’s not steep at all. But there are a few places we’re traveling through that might be troublesome. Familiarize yourself with this while I tie up the boat, okay?”

He leaves the map in Pariston’s hands, the unspoken _memorize it_ taking the place of his original suggestion. He looks a little closer, reading all of the notations—in Ging’s handwriting, surely—and taking in every detail. A forest, to the northwest of here. Swampland directly north. Then a desert, with strange rocky pillars, followed by grasslands in the interior of the island, with the plateau Ging had mentioned beyond that. There’s another stretch of coastline far to the east, which looks far more palatable on the map than the tiny inlet they’d landed on, but there must be a reason for that—the currents, and the weather patterns, things Pariston doesn’t understand but accepts, in the same way he accepts that it must be possible for all of these different biomes to exist simultaneously on the same island, just as Ging had said. He was right—seeing it for himself _was_ entirely different, and he hadn’t even seen it all with his eyes yet.

When Ging returns, Pariston hands him back the map and shoulders his bag. “We can make it to the grasslands before sundown,” he says. “Unless you had a better plan?”

“That is my plan.” With a lazy grin, Ging folds up the map and it disappears into one of his pockets. He lifts one of the bags and presses it into Pariston’s hands before lifting the other. Pariston looks down at his quarry—the rucksack is open at the top, and Pariston notes two bedrolls, tied to mess kits and packaged food. He hasn’t roughed it like this since the Hunter Exam, but he supposes Ging lives like this on a near-daily basis. He wrinkles his nose.

“So we go,” he says, lifting the bag. It is surprisingly light. Ging is already a few steps ahead.

“Onwards and upwards.” Ging doesn’t once look back to see if he follows. Slowly, his footsteps sliding in the damp sand, Pariston does.

* * *

“What is _that_?” Pariston stares at the creature in front of him, shooting bubbles out of its round, gaping mouth. It looks like something out of a nightmare, or a children’s drawing.

Ging watches as it turns its head towards them and releases a stream of multicolored bubbles in their direction. “A bubble horse!”

The horse makes some sort of unnaturally high-pitched neighing sound. “I thought you had more imagination than that.”

He recalls the giant lizards, and the tiny, superfast mice, and the oddly multicolored landscape that seems to change as rapidly as he blinks.

“Don’t let the bubbles touch you,” Ging says. Pariston has only a moment to react, jumping up to join Ging at the top of one of the stone pillars before the bubbles strike the surface, pitting it as though with tiny explosives.

“There are creatures,” he says to Ging, as they stand together. The pillar is barely larger than the round tables at his favorite cafe in Swaldani City, and when he turns to look off into the distance, beyond the desert to the forests beyond, his shoulder brushes Ging’s. “I can sense them, in the trees. They would be great fun to hunt, unlike the ridiculous ones here.”

Ging’s surprise does not show on his face, but there is a hint of it in his voice. “You must have quite the _En_ , to be able to sense things so far.”

“I wonder, would you allow that? I confess the idea is appealing to me.”

“They’re off-limits.” There’s not a trace of apology or softness in him now, and Pariston finds himself leaning closer and thinking of what else could provoke that same reaction. Then, it fades away, and Ging adjusts the pack on his left shoulder. “You can play the game and hunt these creatures to your heart’s content. I’ll even give you a memory card for free, if you want it.”

“I’ll consider it.” He chuckles and looks down. Beneath them, the horse ambles away, its misshapen mouth still spraying bubbles. “I admit I’ve never been very good at those kind of games.”

“Practice,” Ging says. Above them, the sky flares orange, the mountain rising high in the distance beyond the seemingly unending flatness between them. Pariston doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything like it. “You’ll get better.”

“I intend to.” He remembers his desk, and the blinking red lights on the phones in his office. He thinks he would like something different to look at—perhaps a painting, something modern that evokes the colors of this sunset. Or maybe something with a more nautical theme. The budget is flexible, almost as much as he is.

* * *

With dinner finished, and any trash balled up for them to take back with them—Ging is adamant that there be no trace of their presence remaining after they leave, to preserve both the ecology and the strength of the upcoming _Nen_ technique that would bind the entire island together—they sit on their bedrolls around a roaring fire, a few steps from one of the larger trees in the area. Otherwise, they are surrounded by grasses and emptiness. Not even the sound of animals can reach them, far as they are from the forests. Beyond, the mountain rises, the exposed shale edge of the cliffs unlike any type of stone found elsewhere.

Pariston had the foresight to bring a flask of whiskey with him, and he takes small, careful sips from it while Ging babbles about the geological survey—a satellite, passing overhead at just the right time, to be able to capture the exact specifications of the entire island, so they can plan exactly how to conjure its villages and buildings, down to the tiniest detail, all in perfect scale.

Ging is sketching, staring out at the wilderness. “Just imagine it,” he says. “A technique bound by such exacting precision that almost anything is possible. One that can only be accessed by a set maximum amount of people, all wearing the same ring, only in the confines of this island. Trapping the creatures here in cards, that can be activated by saying certain words. Conjured buildings and people to serve the game’s needs. And the technique can only be broken when a single player completes their objective—then, it will all vanish, and the island will once again be as you see it. The amount of limitations is staggering.”

“And that’s why it’ll work.”

“It’ll be the most complex usage of _Nen_ I think has ever been attempted.” Ging stares up, past Pariston to the mountain’s edge, only visible by a line of blackened space below an otherwise flawless canopy of stars. “You asked what else was in this for me.”

Pariston laughs, suddenly, covering his mouth with the back of one hand. “But it won’t be _your_ technique, will it? You don’t have the right _Nen_ type. You’re just planning it for someone else.”

A pause, while Ging contemplates lying. “You’re perceptive,” he finally says, begrudgingly. “No. It’s dependant on a number of people remaining on the island, powering its various features. The caster will be among them.”

“But you want to see it come to fruition so badly,” Pariston continues. “Everything else about this game is yours, isn’t it?”

“It’s a team effort,” Ging repeats, then turns the sketchbook a few pages and hands it to Pariston.

There’s a sketch of the horse, its bubbles shaded across the page. And a sketch of a city, situated in what could be a valley they passed right before the desert. A card, with various notations and numbers in the corners Pariston can only guess at. He turns the page to see a list of them, from cure-alls to spells of transportation to wacky objects and creatures with all manner of special effects.

“We’ll have to test everything ourselves,” Ging says, “before we can release the game worldwide, but I have no doubt everything will work as we tell it to.”

“This one will cure any injury, no matter how fatal.” Pariston hovers over the one marked _Breath of Archangel_ , and looks back at Ging, drawing his gaze up to his arms and across his body. “I’d almost volunteer for that one, if I had more confidence in your success.”

Pariston pauses, his finger tracing the list, and makes a sound of amusement. “And why do you need _this_ one? You and your friends have very active imaginations.”

“What would you change, then?” he asks, his voice gruff. The fire cracks, sending a curl of smoke into the air, and for a moment his vision of Pariston is impeded.

“I didn’t say I’d change anything. What you have sounds…very intriguing. But again, I’d have to see it to believe it.”

He passes the flask to Ging, who takes a sip, raising his eyebrows. Again, it’s something far too nice for Pariston’s pay grade. The flask is engraved, too—possibly even vintage, and certainly not something a regular person could come by easily. He passes it back with a muffled thanks.

“I imagine you do things like this everyday,” Pariston continues. “Extraordinary things. Uncovering a sacred tomb one day, relaxing on your own private island and contemplating the creation of the most complex _Nen_ technique ever attempted the next. It’s second nature to you. Effortless. It’s impressive.”

Ging shrugs off his words in that embarrassed way he has whenever Pariston has brought up his accomplishments. It makes him want to dig even deeper. Pariston leans closer, towards the fire, and the heat of the air increases to become almost painful. His eyes begin to water.

“The people who stick with you get to have that, too.” His voice is markedly placid, like he’s stating a fact or reciting from a list.

“You sound jealous.” He doesn’t. He isn’t. Pariston pulls away from the fire, his eyes wide and unwavering, and to Ging the wilderness has never felt so small.

“I assure you, that is not the case,” Pariston says. “Rather, I’m deciding if I would like to be your friend, and have that too, or be something else and get more.”

Ging tugs at the top of his scarf; the heat must be getting to him. “Tell me what you’d like.”

“I haven’t decided yet.” It’s not quite a smile Pariston gives him, but it’s easier to classify it as one than it is to really consider what might be beneath it. “For now, I suppose you can consider me your ally and most sincere supporter.”

“For now.” Ging leans back, bracing his weight on one outstretched hand. “I’m sure your career at the Association will be just as fulfilling as mine will be here. Perhaps the next time we meet you’ll have made something of yourself.”

Pariston’s smile fades, but his eyes light up with the same kind of appreciation Ging recognizes when one identifies a challenge. “You won’t be disappointed.”

“I don’t think you could disappoint me.” Ging’s esteem of the other man would have to be higher for that to happen. “You’d be a hard man to forget, Pariston.”

“Netero has never forgotten my name,” he says, suddenly. “Mr. Broker—my boss at the Association, you remember—forgets constantly.”

“You don’t sound too affected.”

“Oh, I am. But I don’t expect to be beneath him for too much longer.”

A pause, while Pariston takes another sip of whiskey. The flask lingers at his lips.

“ _Greed Island_ ,” Ging says, slowly. “The A stands for Aizack.”

“Well,” Pariston says, “you’ve certainly picked yourself a good team.”

“You should try it sometime.”

Pariston thinks of Ging’s world—in the wilderness, it was good to travel in groups, and with a business like this video game or the work involved in excavating the ancient ruins he liked so much, a team would only help. But in politics, it was quite a different situation—one had to keep things close to the chest, and the more people involved in one’s plans, the greater the liability. Often the price of advancement came at stabbing one’s teammates in the back. He watched enough people pass through the ranks of the various worldwide political machines to know the game while he waited his turn to play. Once he obtains his prize—power that no one can take away from him—he can start manufacturing games of his own. He wonders if Ging would like to play then.

He smiles at Ging. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Although it’s never been outright confirmed, I’m of the impression that Ickshonpay is the I in Greed Island. It would make sense to me that someone high up in the Association leadership is also a part of the team, so I picked Netero since the official spelling of his name fit. 
> 
> 2) Thank you for reading! I would appreciate and value your comments.


End file.
